


I Hold Your Hand In Mine, Dear Doctor

by Riathel



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Forced Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Implied Necrophilia, It's all fun and games until someone loses a..., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 03:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21092987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel/pseuds/Riathel
Summary: The Master finds a handy use for the Doctor.





	I Hold Your Hand In Mine, Dear Doctor

The Master wakes up to a hand around his cock. Without his eyes open, he knows who it is, he knows those soft, hesitant fingers. He grins. Shifts his hips.

“Doctor, I didn't know you_cared_,” he says, and if his voice is raspy with sleep, practically a moan as he fucks into that nice grip, the Doctor doesn't remark on it, doesn't mock him for it. In the darkness behind his eyes, he sees the Doctor propped up on his other hand beside him. There in bed, with him, close enough to touch, and yet… always so fucking distant, probably not even looking at him, glancing away like this is some kind of unrequited longing, like he's being raped into submission—

Furious, the Master digs his fingers into the Doctor's, knows he's moaning at the pain because that's exactly the sort of repressed slut that he is, but he  _ loves this, _ the Master knows, loves every moment of being put into his right place, which has always been here, here at the Master's side, in his bed, with him, totally bent to a singular purpose, _ his  _ purpose—

His mind contracts momentarily. Everything is tight inside. Skin like effervescent bubbles. Hearts pounding that rhythm.

He opens his eyes.

The Doctor's hand is still wrapped around him, wet, sticky, inert. The Master gives it a few strokes and watches as the skin struggles to return to its usual shape. The elasticity is fading, his hand is pale, clammy, just starting to shrivel into decay. He'll have to give it a wash. Return it to that container. Maybe later today, after they eat breakfast together.

Soon, he’ll find someone else to hold the Doctor’s hand. The Master smiles, lazy and content with the idea. The Doctor always did wither without an audience.


End file.
